Scar
by Harmony283
Summary: “That boy couldn’t possibly mean anything to you, could he?” Cyril hummed, a note of disapproval clear in his voice, “Because you know; I won’t have it. The Earl won’t have it. He’s the enemy.” Tyki x Cyril / Tyki x Allen R&R please!


**And here's yet **_**another**_** kink meme fic…except, this time it's not so much kink as it somehow turned into a character study…**

**One I actually quite like *laugh* **

**Original Kink: **Cyril x Tyki Because Cyril is a fucking creep and reeks of surprise buttsecks. Run with it. Dirty Talk

**What I added: **Tyki x Allen hints, _**spoilers**__, _and way too much **PLOT**.

**Enjoy?**

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Tyki Mikk had a problem.

This problem wasn't just _any_ problem either, nor was it something he could brush off with a wave of a hand. If it had been that kind of problem, well, it wouldn't even be a problem to begin with. It would just be a small irritation, in the long line of irritations he always seemed to run into on a day-to-day basis.

But then, really, what could he expect? His boss wasn't exactly the most predictable in the book, and Tyki had half the mind to wonder if the man didn't just love screwing with people's heads.

Not that screwing with them was _bad_, mind you, but Tyki much rather liked it to be the unfortunate 'someone else' that was at the butt-end of the man's pastime, not himself. Granted, maybe, he had been a bit deserving of it (after failing a mission for the 3rd time in a row, due to _that boy's_ oh so very convenient timing), but by no means did he revel in the fact that he was unknowingly at the end of it.

That just made the irritations worse.

Simply because? Well; he now knew they were intentional.

From Akuma messing up (the annoying things, they hardly ever did anything right anymore, and while he was sadistic, if he killed too many because of something so simply as performing a task wrong, the Earl would most likely question it), to his own brother's and sister's rudeness—

Even _Rhode_--his very own _niece_--seemed to take a special role in the unending irritations.

But then again; she _was_ the best of the best when it came to the famously dubbed 'mind screw'. If Wisely, of course, didn't just stake the claim himself.

Tyki let out a sigh, rubbing his forehead. He could feel the start of a very bad headache coming on, and that never meant anything good. He hadn't lost his complete composure yet (yes, he could snap at Akuma, but they weren't family. The Earl would surely scold him if he ever raised his voice against one of his own kin! And that definitely would make matters worse), but he could feel it coming dangerously close.

He did _not_ need this.

In fact, he needed to find some place quiet, maybe grab a good book to read, or even just _sleep_. He knew it was nearly impossible in the Earl's stronghold, but at least he knew of one reprieve.

His own room, tucked into a quaint little corner, in the back, away from the noise of the others (though he had to admit it both strange, and relieving, that the main source of noise no longer came from Jasdero and Devit. Instead, it came from the ever nosy Wisely. That made it worse. Definitely worse)

Tyki let out yet another sigh. Thinking about it here certainly wouldn't help. No, definitely not. Though he could admit he felt a fraction of worry for the two…or he _would have_…

Had he not had such a horrible day.

Had he not had such a horrible headache.

And that one little problem that made everything worse.

So he needed to get away from said problem, and then maybe he could feel empathetic; he certainly knew he had more of _that_ emotion than any other person in his 'family'—even his brother, who, as the Leader of his Country—always falsified the words of 'love' and 'trust' he was constantly supposed to display to them.

Not that thinking about his brother would help.

But then; he was the only one of his brethren (actually, related brethren) he hadn't seen. He would have counted his lucky stars, but he knew better. He wasn't stupid, despite his lack of education, but then, no amount of book smarts could make one learn the simple-born fact of intuition.

If Tyki's intuition was correct, he would rather not like to put his guard down; even if he so desperately needed it.

For all he knew, Cyril could be waiting on the other side of his door; to fuss at him about failing his Orders, and then maybe—after being such the astute brother that he was—prattle on about how horrid he looked as of late, and maybe saying he needed the _loving touch_ of a brother to soothe his weariness.

Tyki knew better, though.

As _wonderful_ as his brother was (self acclaimed, of course) he highly doubted he needed the _tender_ touch.

If the touch could be called tender.

No. It was anything _but_.

Tyki ground his teeth together, mentally shaking the disturbing touches from his mind. This was just making his problems worse; his headache worse—he just needed to tell his intuition to go back into the depths of his mind and _fuck_ itself—because he didn't want it to be right.

He desperately hoped it wasn't, when he reached his door (even the dimly lit hall sconces made his head throb; that definitely wasn't a good sign) and turned the knob.

_Please don't let him be here_ he begged to someone he wouldn't name, some entity maybe, except he knew he was far from religious.

But religion always had a way of screwing him over. If the man sitting on the bed was anything to go by.

Tyki shut his eyes, then opened them; desperately hoping that this was just a figment of his abused brain's imagination.

"Tyki!"

No.

It definitely wasn't.

Tyki let out another, slightly less composed, sigh, "Cyril."

Immediately the man was up on his feet, crossing the short distance in a span of seconds and very large steps, "Goodness! You look horrible!" He pointed out the obvious, hands coming to rest on his shoulders, "What happened to you?!"

Tyki shrugged off his brother's hands as politely as he could, forcing a smile on his face, "Nothing," he lied smoothly.

Cyril scowled, and Tyki knew the man didn't believe a word of it, "Honestly Tyki, must you lie to me?" He wondered aloud, exaggerated worry clear on his face, "We're family!"

"Yes," Because there was no way to deny the blood they shared between them, "But really, it's nothing. I'm just tired; that's all."

"That certainly isn't nothing," Cyril clucked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, "Has the Earl been overworking you?"

Tyki said nothing. What could he say? It wasn't like he could deny following the Earl's orders; after all, that usually held dire consequences that Tyki really didn't want to experience firsthand.

"He has." Cyril took his silence as an affirmative, "Honestly, you're still hurting from what that boy did to you." Tyki tried to ignore the scathing tone those words took, because that, oddly, made it worse.

"It's fine, brother." He stepped past him, towards the bed.

"I can always speak to him." Cyril warned, "I could go in your place—"

"You have a country to run." Tyki cut him off, feeling his shoulders tense further at the possible argument, "And besides, it is the Earl's wish that _I_ fill out the missions. Not you."

He vaguely wondered if he offended his brother, but the silence was more than welcomed. He moved over towards the bed, and sat on the edge, nearly directly where Cyril had been sitting when he entered the room. Letting out an exhale, he fell back against the soft mattress.

And blatantly

_Blatantly_

Ignoring his brother's presence.

"But if you're tired, then you cannot perform up to par." Unfortunately said brother was making that very difficult. Tyki couldn't even respond before he felt added weight next to him, dipping the mattress slightly.

He flung one arm over his face to block out the room.

"Tyki," he felt a hand instantly try to tug away his arm, "Look at me, Tyki," The hand squeezed harder, "You really _are_ exhausted, aren't you?"

"And you should be saying anything?" Tyki couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice, as he felt his arm being successfully pried from his face, "You shouldn't be here."

"Of course I should be here!" Cyril replied back, nearly sounding offended, "My dear brother, and daughter are here! Why wouldn't I be here?"

"You can't just leave your country unattended." Tyki couldn't believe he had to remind his brother of this.

"I have before." Cyril sounded indignant, "Besides, family before duty, as the saying goes."

_Depends on who you talk to_, but Tyki didn't want to risk saying that out loud, lest he goad himself into another argument—when really, all he wanted was for the voices to stop, and for there to be _silence_.

His head was already screaming at him, in it's overly abused state. He almost couldn't take it anymore, and he felt a sickening pressure—one he had grown familiar with, ever since that _boy_ had left that—scar—  
He let out a slight hiss as the scars began to tighten; almost as if the very memory brought the onslaught of pain. The pain he could almost entirely ignore now, but—at the very slightest weakening of his mental barriers—would come back full throttle.

"Tyki?" Concern laced in the other's voice, and he could feel a shadow pass slightly over his face, "Are you alright?"

Tyki almost wanted to laugh, but when he opened his eyes, his brother was much too close for that—the emotion that much more real.

His scars tightened again, and this time Cyril more than caught the flinch.

"Your scars?" He asked quietly, tracing them through his shirt. Tyki almost had to wonder how the man knew where they were; but then, he assumed, it was a 'brother' thing. Not that he had to like it, and not that the touch was soothing by any means, but—

He tensed when he felt the hand stop, on the center of his chest. For a moment it lay there, harmless in every aspect of the word—

Except Tyki more than knew who he was dealing with.

This man was anything _but_ harmless; especially when he got too many odd ideas in his head.

Tyki practically forced himself up, when the fingers began fiddling with the button there. Even though his scars protested the movement—blazing to life in hot flashes of pain—Tyki ignored it, instead opting to shove his brother's hands away.

He only succeeded halfway. Cyril had laced his own fingers through his own, concern and--_something else_ there in his eyes.

"What…?" Tyki wasn't quite sure what he wanted to ask…_What are you doing?_ was the obvious choice, but he wasn't quite sure he wanted to know what that _was_.

"Your scars hurt, don't they?" Cyril tightened his grip momentarily on his brother's hands, "I just want to see them."

_Of course you do._ Tyki wasn't likely to forget the multiple times he had woken up with his shirt half off, and Cyril balancing above him—claiming it was for body heat, body heat was always more effective skin to skin, and maybe back then Tyki had been dumb enough to believe him, because, who wouldn't? It was dead of winter and it made too much logical sense to—

But he was distracting himself.

"They're fine."

"No they aren't." Cyril immediately shot down, pinning his hand to the mattress in a loose, but firm, grip, "You're in pain, brother. I can't stand seeing you in pain."

"That doesn't mean you have to strip me."

"But you don't like them, do you?" Tyki blinked, baffled, "They marred your perfect skin," he didn't want to think of how disturbing that sounded, "they were made by _Innocence_, it must hurt to look at them."

Tyki simply shook his head, "They're just scars, brother." Admittedly scars that gave him too much pain that sometimes he couldn't stand it—

But then, Rhode had said that that was normal, after all, he had tried to suppress his inner Noah—even unwillingly. No, not unwillingly, he felt his stomach clench, "They don't—"

"Hurt?" Cyril's voice lowered slightly, almost menacingly, except Tyki knew he would never use that voice with him, "Of course they do. I hate it when you lie to me." He was trying to chastise, but Tyki couldn't help but notice the darker edge, "Brother's shouldn't lie to each other. Family shouldn't keep secrets."

"Nor should they hold their brother's down and strip them." Tyki muttered, just as lowly.

"Can you blame me?" It was unnerving how _bright_ those words sounded, "You're my little brother; you're beautiful. Of course I would want to see as much of you as I can."

"Despite it being explicitly illegal?"

He didn't like the smirk that formed on the other's lips.

Not

One

Bit

He felt himself straining against the older male's body; half-wondering when the man had straddled him so effectively. He nearly cursed the fact too, when he couldn't jerk his arm free.

This was bad

Very bad.

"I've done much worse than this," Cyril's voice deepened impossibly lower, lust tinting the barest edges of each word, making unwanted shivers course down Tyki's spine.

No. This wasn't just _bad_ this was—was—

"You're my little brother," again, the words seemed sadistically bright in comparison to the now darkening eyes, "you deserve someone wonderful." Images Tyki chose to ignore, flashed through his mind, as he felt his throat tighten, "Yet no one deserves you." Tyki knew this trick, this ability, Cyril's words—they held so much power, he was immobile and this—this—

"You deserve so much more than you have." Cyril easily let go of his wrist, now that Tyki couldn't fight back, and began unbuttoning each perfectly circular button of Tyki's dress shirt.

"With this body of yours." Cyril dipped his head into the nook of Tyki's neck, "How could my dear brother _not_ be deserving of this?" Another unwanted shiver as a tongue darted out to taste the skin there.

And again—

Again he felt the words do something to him that they probably shouldn't. _He_ was the Noah of Pleasure--_He_ was supposed to be the one who sent other's quaking to their knees--_He_--

Should have never left himself so vulnerable.

This was more than just a problem now.

It was a catastrophe.

Tyki swallowed, and tried to form words on his lips. He couldn't get them out, quick enough, before he felt the last button coming undone, and his shirt being pushed aside, down his arms.

Cyril had pushed himself up, now, gazing down at him with lust-darkened eyes; but somewhere in them, he could see that familiar worry that his brother always had, that familiar spark that connected them.

And made this _so_ very wrong.

He shuddered when his brother's hands moved to his chest, tracing the scar, "See this?" The words were barely audible, but too loud in the quiet room, "this should have never happened. Marring your beauty so; that boy should not be forgiven."

Another stab of pain, somewhere over his heart. But he shook the feeling away; of course he had every _right_ to be angry at the boy, but—

_But_

If his body had been compliant to his own needs, he would have flinched at the other's touch, when a pair of soft lips began to trace the scar, following the path of the fingers, and making this all--_all_--

His breath hitched slightly as a tongue darted out. He knew his brother could feel it, and sure enough, with another kiss, he could feel the other man smile.

"See?" he murmured against his skin, "You truly are deserving of this. To have someone love you so unconditionally, to please you in such a way. No one deserves to be under you." Another kiss and Tyki almost felt offended—  
But it was trivial. Oh so trivial. It wasn't like he never bottomed before; not that he was with men often, but the fact that Cyril said he _shouldn't_--

"Relax, brother." Cyril noticed, of course he'd notice, "I meant no offense. I'm sure you're a wonderful love that way as well. Maybe one day we'll try it that way." The man pulled himself up so their gazes locked, and another grin spread it's way along is lips, "But now, don't you think, it would be nice to be filled?" the hands went to work again, and Tyki—  
Tyki didn't know.

But then he _did_ know. Where this was headed. It made his stomach churn with equal parts shock, disgust, and the other emotions—of the Noah inside him—darkening…

"Wouldn't it be wonderful, brother? To experience the sin as it is, with us together, as one, in the ultimate bond of love?" The words were corny and clichéd, but that was the least of Tyki's worries, as he felt cool air hit what was once-covered skin.

"I've seen you as no other ever has," A soft kiss was pressed into his thigh; "it only makes sense that I should see you in this way as well." Another kiss, this time to the other hip.

The pit of his stomach dropped. _No_, no, _no_! Every fiber of his being screamed that, every part of this was _wrong_, the tongue darting out to taste skin; the fact he was half nude, the fact that this was forced, the fact that these scars hurt and brought up feelings he would rather not think about—

Tyki inhaled sharply as his pants were lowered a fraction more.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful?" Cyril mentioned, almost offhandedly, and grossly too bright, "To kill the boy that did this to you?"

Tyki didn't like that thought; it sent an unnerving wave through him, causing flashes of the boy as he had been—in pain, with a tease in his chest, and his Innocence destroyed—

It made bile rise up to the back of his throat when he realized that _he_ had been the one to do that. Some part of him screamed out in louder protest at just the simple memories, but he refused to panic.  
That boy was the enemy.

A familiar one

One he felt some sort of connection to—a _fondness_ he couldn't quite explain, and that had made itself much more known since he had 'theoretically' died. Had his Noah Released. His skin permanently tinted the grayish hue that signified their 'Family'.

The same grayish hue that kept him separate from the others. The other family he had grown to care for—his 'white' family—

That…was it. He needed _that_ sort of relief. He didn't need this. He didn't need his brother, on top of him, pulling his pants down, slowly—slowly—

"Tyki?" hands reached up to brush against his face, "What is it?" Tyki glared; it was the best he could do with vocal chords that refused to cooperate.

_I used to be stronger than this._

"That boy couldn't possibly mean anything to you, could he?" Cyril hummed, a note of disapproval clear in his voice, "Because you know; I won't have it. The _Earl_ won't have it. He's the enemy."

His pants were lowered further.

The grin on the other's lips turned that much more sadistic, "And we can't allow you to be with _the enemy_. No. Not someone as perfect as you, _brother_."

_Then why don't you worry about Rhode?_ It was a tactless argument, even if he could speak, because Cyril still was naïve enough to not notice his daughters obvious affections for the white haired teen.

Tyki didn't hold affection for him. No.

It just unnerved him; and he wanted answers. Answers Rhode wouldn't give him, nor would his brother, nor would the Earl—who had been the source of all his problems of the day.

"You're distracted by him." Tyki jolted when a cold hand reached into the front of his pants, to stroke at something that a brother should never touch. "Even with me, right here, in front of you—so _devoted_ to you," the hand in his pants squeezed none too gently, "and you're filled with memories of _him_?"

Tyki opened his mouth to protest—it wasn't like that. Not…not that he knew, of, anyway. He didn't hold affection for the boy. He was too innocent, to soft, too _smile_ when one shouldn't be smiling—and he forgave.

Forgave, forgave, forgave.

And maybe that's what hurt the most.

Because of _course_ Tyki remembered. He was still conscious (barely), when the boy had tried to save him before.

"See? Even now; thoughts of him." Cyril leaned down; planting a kiss on the scars once more, "I want to please you, brother."

_I know you do._

"How can I make you stop thinking of _him_?" Well. That might be useful, after all, the thoughts of the boy were confusing him, and it didn't help his headaches or his problems.

But this—

_this_

Wasn't the way he wanted them solved.

He tried to force himself upright and, surprisingly, Cyril didn't stop him. He only maneuvered to straddling his waist, with a confused, but heated, and _worried_ expression on his face.

"Not," Tyki cringed at how pathetic his voice sounded. He wasn't pathetic, "Not like this…_brother_."

"Then how?"

"Get off."

Cyril didn't get off.

"Please?"

Cyril didn't move.

And Tyki, really; _really_ didn't want to feel the familiar bulge that he felt, when, in one rough motion, his _dear brother_ ground against him.

"If I say no?" Tyki didn't like the breathy quality of the other's voice either, nor the fact that it was right in his ear, and even if he didn't like it, he couldn't deny that it was doing _something_.

He and his brother weren't _that_ different, after all. Though there abilities ranged, charm was, unfortunately, something given to them naturally.

"Then you won't be doing…what I asked you to." His voice still sounded strange, foreign, when he spoke those words, "So, please, brother, get off."

Again; he didn't budge.

Tyki sighed, "I _would_ like to sleep, you know."

"Then I can watch you."

"Without you here." Tyki replied, flatly, "You know how I am."

"I do," Tyki couldn't pretend the hand in his hair wasn't there; loosening his hair tie, "You dislike sleeping in the arms of another. It's one thing you've never done, no matter how many imperfects you've bedded." His lips turned to a frown, before quickly switching back to a smile, "But I've seen you sleep before."

"When I was five."

"Older." Cyril let out a chuckle that was grossly inappropriate; given the situation, "We were all we had; you know?"

Tyki didn't respond. What could he say to something like that?

"You were all I had." _Despite the money, and riches, and women that threw themselves at you? Yeah I guess I might have been_ But Tyki didn't think to say that outloud. It wasn't that he was bitter about it; it was thanks to his brother that they hadn't starved.

Yes that meant multitudes of Poker games; and other lesser activities he had never been too proud of (or proud enough to hide, from his brother, at least), but they got where they were now, didn't they?

Which was apparently a bed.

Lying there; together

As if it was perfectly normal.

And it wasn't.

Tyki let out a sigh and raised one hand to push against his brother's chest, "Yes, yes, but again, you shouldn't be here."

"Yes I should." Cyril took that hand on his chest, lacing his fingers through, and smiling, "Of course I should be with brother! You're my one and only family." A pause, "And I love you."

Tyki grimaced.

_Love?_ such a foreign concept, "Of course you do."

"And you love me?" He sounded hopeful; Tyki wanted to laugh.

Instead he looked away—tilting his head back—saying, "Yes, I do."

"Then say it." The hand holding his own tightened, and soon Tyki found it forced above his head, "Say it, and look at me when you say it." Tyki nearly cursed when he didn't move his hand fast enough, because soon, his free hand was also pinned in a crushing grip.

And he knew he could easily get out of it; if he used his powers.

"And don't even think of using your powers." Cyril chastised, seeming to read his mind. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a familiar slip of paper with ancient text scrawled on it in barely legible handwriting.

_Why did the Earl give him that?_

"He didn't give it to me." Cyril guessed, "But I really don't want to use it on you."

Tyki stared in mild shock. Mild, only, because his brother; like him, was sadistic.

Except much worse.

Much, _much_ worse.

"So you'd rape me?" He wondered aloud, voice bland at best. Cyril looked oddly pained by that, so Tyki continued, "You would really hold me down; bind me, and rape me?" He rose an inquisitive eyebrow, "Brother, what would you hope to accomplish by doing that?" He could still feel the familiar bulge pressing into his thigh (Cyril had shifted, when grabbing his hands, and now the pressure was increased) and it was almost hilarious; "Or have you really not gotten laid in that long? What about your wife?"

"What about her?" Cyril almost sounded bitter, "She's sickly, and honestly, I thought we went over this."

_Ah, right_ Tyki nodded his head, "You only got married to adopt Rhode."

"_Not_ because I have any particular interest in women."

"Of course," Tyki shook his head, "Just Rhode."

"Oh, Rhode's adorable!"

"Then why don't you go bug her?"

"Because she's busy?"

Tyki knew that was a lie, "She was just bothering me before I came here." Cyril blinked, looking mildly shocked, "Now _please_ get off."

"But brother~"

Tyki let out a grunt, and phased both arms through his brother's grip. It wasn't like he _really_ was going to rape him…  
Right?

Wrong.

His head slammed back; harder, against the mattress. He barely had time to let out a grunt, before he felt the sickening power of those stupid pieces of paper take over. His limbs began to numb, and for a moment, it was hard to breathe.

"You really _are_ ruining the mood, you know." The words had no pretense of kindness, only irritation, and lust, and other emotions Tyki couldn't place.

It didn't matter that there wasn't supposed to be a mood to begin with. It didn't matter that Tyki probably could have just phased through Cyril earlier; but no. He hadn't.

_He wouldn't really_ had been pushed just a little too far.

Now Tyki knew better.

And the mouth on his; currently, wasn't helping matters. At all. His chest already felt heavy enough; lungs constricted to the point where breathing regularly was just a distant dream, but now his air flow was entirely cut off.

He nearly gagged when his mouth was opened with a persistent tongue. But that didn't last long—

Of course, he couldn't move his limbs. He couldn't materialize through _brother dearest_, but it didn't mean he was entirely powerless.

So when he bit down on the others tongue, and the coppery taste of blood entered his mouth, he reveled in it; smirking against the others lips in the millisecond it took before he pulled away. Scowling, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, before checking to see if his tongue hadn't been nearly severed.

"Goodness, you're violent." Tyki nearly gawked at the cheerful—though pained—sound of the other's voice. But then, maybe he should have been expecting that too—could he honestly say he was surprised?

"And do you know," Cyril let out a mirthful chuckle, hands dipping down to touch the scars he seemed to love so much, "what happens to those who are…_disobedient_?"

Like Cyril honestly thought Tyki wouldn't fight back. Yes the damned pieces of paper didn't help. They made things so much worse; so much heavier, painful, constricting—and he hated it. The Earl had rarely used them on him in his youth, even when he got to attached and _didn't_ kill.

All thanks to his brother.

He felt the hands dip down farther, back to the confines of his pants, to grip again; to _stroke_ again. In ways that a brother shouldn't know how to do. And Tyki didn't want it. He wanted to _reject, reject, Reject_ until he couldn't anymore, but the hand never once moved, and he knew his powers were worthless.

Worthless now, in this context, literally bound and weakened before his _dearest brother_, the one and only person to see him through the worse. To see—

Even despite the binds he shivered, as the one thing that brothers weren't supposed to touch, began to harden in the very same brother's grip.

It was almost mortifying, and it was a good deal embarrassing. Tyki turned his head away as best he could, to hide the blush he knew was on his cheeks. Cyril's near-manic grin ('slasher smile' as Rhode had once tried to ingrain in him as the 'current terminology') was also on the fair side of unsettling.

But then all things considering; the entire…what? What could this be called? _Meeting_? Whatever it was, unsettling barely covered half of it.

Another wave of chilled disgust rolled through Tyki, and he wanted so badly to try and squirm away—true the paper bound his powers, but it didn't bind him from _movement_, did it? He could still struggle if he tried to—

And try he would.

"Oh?" The hand down _there_ stopped for a moment, noticing the tried shifts and squirms that Tyki tried to make, "You're still going to try and struggle?" He sounded amused, with a tinge of that darker emotion Tyki had heard earlier.

He didn't want it to, but caused another unsettling quake through his lower abdomen. He opened his mouth to see if his vocal chords would work and—though shakily—he found, they did.

"O-Of _course_ I am, _brother_." He hated the stutter, and the fact that, though he could squirm and shift, only his arms seemed to be regaining any form of strength; and they could only do so much with him pinned down at the hips.

"So I really will have to gag you, and handcuff you to the bed?" Tyki's eyes widened momentarily as lifted his free hand and rummaged around in the pocket of his dress pants.

_Handcuffs_.

"Don't act so alarmed." Cyril let out a chuckle, "If I have to use these, I will. And ties are useful as gags, you know."

_Like you spend your time raping people_ but he didn't dare say that out loud.

"And I really don't want to gag you, _or_ handcuff you," The dark flash of golden in the other's eyes proved that he wasn't as opposed to the idea as his words made it seem, "it would be no _fun_ that way."

"Of course not." That was meant for his ears only, but due to their close proximity Tyki knew brother dearest would hear regardless, and at this point he wanted more _distraction_ just in case his legs started agreeing with him.

"Contrary to popular belief, _brother_ I really don't bed anyone that often."

"Hence why you're here." The response was flat, as Tyki attempted to force himself upright. He only got so far—propped up on his elbows—but it was enough, "Didn't we _just_—" Enough…though _not_ enough.  
Cyril was over him again, pressing their lips hotly together and--_grasping_--down in his nether regions…and Tyki knew he really, _really_ shouldn't be enjoying this. It was sick, and wrong, and his body was agreeing with something that his heart couldn't (not that he had a heart. He just loved to tear them out. Especially the hearts of young boy's who reminded him of so much familiarity that—)

He tried to tear his mouth away from the kiss, but it didn't quite work, and he was little more than just a little breathless, a little lightheaded, a little sickened by the whole thing.

"Exactly why I'm here." Cyril chuckled mirthfully, directly in Tyki's ear, "Oh, but you know that's only part of the reason." A hand was forcing him back, and Tyki all but hoped the handcuffs had been forgotten. Maybe they had, but—"I don't want you just for a good fuck, you know." Cyril stated matter of factly—when he once again, arched over him, hand still firmly gripping at that one place Tyki wished he wouldn't.

He didn't even need to ask _why_ he was here then. He would only get the 'I love you'. Maybe the possible 'I'm worried' and it wasn't like he entirely believed in either emotion.

No. Definitely not.

He swallowed a little too loudly when a tongue ran out along the rim of his ear, "You're perfect, irmão(1)." And the warm breathy sentence didn't help matters much, "Why wouldn't I want anyone but you?" Tyki steeled himself for another heartfelt monologue about their past. Would Cyril ever shut _up_ about it?

Tyki was almost willing to kiss the man if it made him stop talking.

Wait.

"I remember when we were left out on the streets…cold…only our own body's to share body warmth with." Still dark, and warm, in his ear, Tyki didn't want to shiver, but his body allowed the action anyway, "You know, when you were younger, I remember, you were so clingy. You never wanted to be left alone, even after the Earl found me. Even after I 'woke up'." Cyril nuzzled Tyki's neck with his nose—in an almost affectionate manner—"You stayed by me, even after I turned. Even after everything. It was only a matter of time before you turned as well, don't you think?"

Tyki didn't want to remember that.

Or…what he _could_ remember of that.

"You were beautiful then, too." Cyril kept talking, though, oblivious to the tensing muscles beneath him, "Covered in the blood of your victims. The Earl took a great liking to you. I don't blame him, for you really _are_ quite beautiful. Handsome, _perfect_ in the way no human can ever be." Cyril moved back for a moment, smiling wistfully as a hand reached out and traced his chin.

"But then that boy came."

Tyki. Didn't. Want. To. _Talk_. About. This.

"He blemished you." Again, Cyril was oblivious, holding his jaw in a stronghold that Tyki couldn't pull away from. "How can you not want to destroy someone like that?"

_Because he's familiar._

Tyki couldn't get the words to form, before Cyril traveled down on his body—hand again, stroking that thing that shouldn't be touched—other hand running along the scars once more; paying individual attention to each one—tongue tracing afterward—

He wasn't shivering. He didn't _want_ to shiver. It was just his body. His heart and mind raged war against it, but were losing, and the paper binding his power was still very much intact. It wouldn't budge, if he could, he knew he would phase through, then run—where? Somewhere? Cyril would find him, he knew he would.

He would even get the Earl to help search for him—and Tyki didn't want that. The last thing he needed was for The Earl to get involved. Yes he had been failing. He should be glad he didn't get off worse than he had, but in a way this _was_ the Earl's punishment. This was—

This could have all been planned by the Earl. Except he knew Cyril was greedy. Even if the Earl had said no, he would probably take—and take—and take advantage of and—

He felt a cool piece of metal link around both wrists, the sudden chill causing Tyki to jump and glare at the man above him.

The handcuffs.

Cyril grinned—eyes completely darkened with lust—"Oh, don't look like that irmão, I don't want you struggling for this next part."

Tyki opened his mouth to protest, but he never got that far. The words he had been going to say loosened and scrambled and reworded into a gasp as something decidedly unfamiliar entered him. Cool, and slick, with something he couldn't define (and when had his pants been tugged off? He hadn't registered it, and that disturbed him)—

It was a finger. Coated in lubricant. Tyki wasn't dense; he knew well enough what it was. And the grin that stretched across his dear brother's face didn't help that fact. Nor did the guttural chuckle afterward, "My, my, my," Cyril hummed out, "You really _haven't_ bottomed in a while, have you?" Another finger was added in quick succession at this discovery.  
Tyki merely looked away. It wasn't that the act was painful, no, it was more shameful and _wrong_ than—

"You really should be on the receiving end more often," Cyril tut-ed, liking his lips as he added another finger in—too quick, too—

But Tyki always remembered the feeling. Even if he had been too drunk to _rightfully_ remember it. He had been through worse, and why give a flinch of pain, when something worse was to come?

Why wasn't he fighting?

Tyki squashed that thought. He knew he should. He had every right to, with his brother over him, fingers inside in that place they shouldn't be, looking very much like _that_.

But his arms were bound now, and he could more than guess the handcuffs would hold him (his brother _was_ crazy prepared at all times, after all) and even his legs refused to cooperate, they were being manhandled currently—spread wider for easier access for the next movements that Tyki didn't really want to think about—

"I suppose I should count myself lucky, then," Cyril's lust hazed voice snapped him out of whatever train of thought he had been riding in, snapping his eyes back to the man (he had turned his head to the side. If he knew what was going to happen, why watch it?), "but don't worry, I'll go slow. Anything for you, brother."

Legs spread further, Tyki tried to relax his body. He _knew_ what was coming next, and that yes, it probably _would_ hurt. More than the fingers, but not more than Innocence. Not that he could compare the two, they couldn't be, they were _different_ kinds of pain.

"I Desire you," Cyril murmured as he pulled the fingers out, "I Desire…you, my Pleasure."

Then he entered him, and Tyki's head snapped back almost immediately against the bed—handcuffs clinking—eyes widening—a scream trying to be muffled—

All in three seconds flat.

Cyril hissed above him, sinking in at a faster pace than Tyki would have liked—feeling tears brim the edges of his eyes, making him lose focus, but no, he _wasn't_ weak. He just—

Tyki inhaled sharply when the other was fully seated inside him, wincing as the man shifted, ever so slightly, muscles clenching against the pain.

"A-Ah…goodness," Cyril seemed to like that, "I-I wouldn't do that if I were you, Ty-ki." He bowed his head, hair falling over his shoulder to tickle Tyki's chest, a few murmured curses accompanied it, as Tyki attempted to relax.

He didn't want to give his brother pleasure. This should have never happened in the first place, and now Tyki was wondering, really? Why _hadn't_ he fought? In fact, why hadn't he just turned around and left the room when he saw his brother there? It would only make his problems worse—worse—

Suddenly he was being tilted, hands graciously gripping at his hips, forcing him back and up—and another shot of pain laced through his spine—

"Terribly…sorry," Cyril panted after a moment, grinning devilishly down at Tyki, who could only manage to grit his teeth, "T-This angle…might be better, however." A deep inhale cut him off, "Why not test...it out?" then his hips started rocking, slightly, not roughly, but Tyki wasn't used to it.

He wasn't one to be crude but his brother was by no means 'small'. And by no means did 'slow' really match up to what they were doing (considering the amount of force it took just to _completely_ the aforementioned action)—it hurt, considerably, and _no_ the position didn't make it better, but it wasn't like he could get the words out because—

_What if the others heard?_ not that he particularly cared about the act itself, but the _teasing_ and—

He was sure Cyril wouldn't want Rhode to see such an obscene act, and he was almost certain that said _niece_ of his would eventually come around to bother him as part of Earl's plan to make the rest of his day miserable.

The rocking increased, and Tyki couldn't help the groan that tore from his throat. The sound seemed to trigger something in Cyril's movements, and all too suddenly he was being flipped—and pinned face first into the mattress.

"Hush, _brother_." Cyril whispered dangerously in his ear, "Can't have you being loud, would we? Lest someone overhear." Tyki faintly wondered where the 'gag' idea had run off to, but then—it wasn't like he _wanted_ to be gagged, nor should he even be _thinking_ of such a notion—when the movement started up again.

This time there was no penchant to gentleness in the thrusts, and the warm breath against his ear was to no ends comforting.

The nails digging into his thighs would leave marks, and he knew it, and he wanted nothing more than to buck back and get this—this—his _dear brother_ off him.

He didn't want this. This didn't solve his problem, this made them worse, but it definitely didn't help matters when the edges of his vision went blurry once more, and darkened quite a bit—

Tyki bit into the mattress to keep the yelp down to a minimum. That was the last thing he needed too, for Cyril to know when he was—

"Oh?" Tyki stiffened slightly when the thrust's slowed, and the warm breath fanned over his ear, "You liked that, brother?"

He didn't get a chance to respond before that spot was hit again—and again—again—again—

Tyki gritted his teeth against it, against the sounds he didn't want, pressing at the top of his throat, threatening to spill out—he wouldn't give his dear brother that much satisfaction. He was already taking enough as it was.

"Why don't you tell me you like it?" Tyki vaguely wondered how the man could talk straight without a stutter; it brought a whole other meaning to the term 'composed' that Tyki knew he would never be able to reach.

That didn't help matters either, when a hiss issued forth from between his lips. He had gotten distracted, for a split second, and now one of Cyril's hands had snaked it's way to his front to _grip_ him again.

He cursed the moan that happened after that; squeezing his eyes shut that much tighter, as if it was all it took to block out feeling as well.  
But he still felt.

He didn't _want_ to feel this.

Cyril laughed, shakily, above him, "Oh yes, you _do_ like that, don't you?" He hummed lightly as he squeezed with his hand, a gentle hold compared to such rapid hard thrusting—so vastly different, it caused another wave of shivers.

But he wouldn't give in, just yet.

He _couldn't_ give in, just yet.

"You don't have to hold it in, you know?" Tyki might've been confident when he heard the slight waver in the others voice, "you want to come, don't you? Your body's screaming for it. So wanton, really," Tyki felt heat again, press against his back, "yet so undeniably beautiful." A low chuckle accompanied it, along with a tongue, tracing his shoulder blade.

Tyki refused to shiver at that, nor at the hand underneath him, squeezing, pumping, in a way that—had this been anyone else, he would have enjoyed it.

"Let me help you," the words were whispered against his shoulder, "Let my desire…be your desire…let me…" his sentence trailed off with a soft grunt, and suddenly the pace inside him quickened.

Hard, rough, fast, Tyki almost wished his brother's aim had been off a little bit (not that pain would have helped his situation out, but he'd rather have that then be humiliated), but it wasn't, and he hit _there_--against his prostate—each and every time.

Then a splash of wetness—inside—warm, and hot, making him shiver again, _unwanted_--and Tyki felt the warmth against his back press closer, hand pump harder and soon Tyki felt his own release, wet against the bed, and his thighs, and his brother's hand.

And the humiliation hit him like a ton of bricks, along with the breathy laughter in his ear.

"Goodness, brother," Cyril hummed, breathlessly, "You have so much _stamina_," he hated how the fingers tracing his scars caused such a reaction. He disliked the fact—the reason—why his skin was so synthesized, and how Cyril was more than taking that fact for granted, tracing each line, each 'blemish' delicately with his fingertips.

"Why thank you," He decided to reply back anyway, smartly, wanting to push Cyril's hands away, but knowing he couldn't—they were still bound with those handcuffs (which he now realized, had been rubbing against his skin. He was sure he'd have marks once they came off), "Good to know you have so _little_."

"Oh come now," a none-too-playful nip at his neck made Tyki feel more victimized than he would have liked, "You know you enjoyed it. You wouldn't have come if you hadn't."

Tyki wanted to laugh at that, really he did, "Oh but, _brother_," sarcasm easily laced through his voice, "just because one comes," he winced at a particularly hard bite between the junction of neck and shoulder, "does not _mean_ anything. All that _matters_ is if you yourself enjoyed it."

"I myself?" Cyril seemed to ponder that over a moment, licking at the skin he had just bitten (Tyki faintly wondered if he had drawn blood. Not that that mattered much, now, after the fact), "Well yes, of course I did. Didn't you?" Hands brushed against sensitized skin, and even though Tyki shivered he still managed out straight words.

If Cyril could do it, so could he.

"No, I'm afraid I didn't." He winced slightly when nails were added to the trailing fingers, "Now if you don't mind, either un-handcuff me, or take these," he looked down at the binding piece of paper (it almost awed him that it hadn't fallen off yet, but then, it was expected of something The Earl came up with), "and destroy them, please, I would much rather like my movement back."

"But you'll just push away!" Cyril clinged then, almost comically, "And then you'll get dressed, and leave, and then the Earl might find you—and send you out again!"

Tyki felt his lips turn to a scowl at the edges as he tried to force dear brother's arms to loosen, "I understand that." He said when the attempt failed.

"Then you'll stay?"

"_No_," The word was too forceful, but he felt a little less humiliated when the hands stopped clinging and he felt the flinch against his back, "I'll leave the Ark…for a little while."

"And go where?"

"Out."

"To your human friends?"

Tyki felt a pang of loss at the flippancy of those words, "No. I doubt they'd recognize me now." As much as it hurt to admit those words, he more than knew the truthfulness behind them. That made it hurt worse.

"Then what?"

"I'll take a walk." He felt the arms loosen even more around him, "This place is too noisy to begin with, after all."

"Would you like to take a walk in my gardens?" Cyril wondered, arms and hands working, now—Tyki was surprised to note—on the 'binding' paper on his chest. It burned slightly, but it wasn't painful, Tyki had been through worse, after all, "I can tell Tricia and the maids not to bother you. Not that I can guarantee anything, but," he trailed off, moving back willingly so Tyki wouldn't have to.

With the binds gone, the numbness he felt throbbing within lessened, and soon he could will the handcuffs through his arms, to drop on the mattress. His lips twitched in a smile; one he hid with a bow of his head, "Thank you for the offer, brother, but I believe I'll be fine on my own."

"You're certain?" Uncertainty laced through the others voice.

"Yes, I'm certain." Tyki mildly nodded his head, standing, slowly, on uneasy legs to grab at his shirt, and boxers, and pants that had come off during the escapade. He didn't bother grabbing a jacket from his closet (it wasn't like it was _cold_ out) He just concentrated on getting dressed and getting out—

He needed to get out of the Ark.

He needed to _think_

"You won't go to that boy, will you?" Tyki's head snapped up at the question.

They found Cyril nearly immediately, also putting on what little clothes had come off (just his shirt, apparently, Tyki scowled at that). The man was eyeing him as if he half expected him to _lie_.

But why would he lie?

"I don't even know where the boy is." That was truthful, enough, the Earl was purposely withholding where the new Exorcist Base was and he wouldn't say a word to anyone unless it was to _everyone_ (or Rhode, but then Tyki was sure she had probably guessed herself), "How could I go to him if I don't know where he is?"

"Then what if you run into him?" The question was clipped now; accusing.

"I highly doubt it, brother," Tyki turned away again. What was the man thinking? Why was he so insistent on—

"He might blemish you again." Tyki blinked when he felt a hand on his shoulder. His brother had crawled back on the mattress, towards him, a hand clamped there, on his shoulder, squeezing—and _concern_.  
Tyki didn't answer.

"We can't have that." Cyril continued, "The Earl can't have that, brother, I'm _worried_."

Tyki easily phased through his brother's hand—twice, when it tried to grab his arm—making it to the door was really quite easy, with the advantage he so obviously had.

And he couldn't help but smile in relief when he stepped out of the room (though it was common practice to _open_ the doors and walk through, Tyki didn't feel the need to. It gave him extra time, anyway. Not that he really thought Cyril would run after him).

Soon enough he found himself walking farther into the corridor, to one of Rhode's doors. He half expected to see her there, too (or at least one version of her, standing guard. Maybe even an Akuma). But she wasn't there, and no Akuma's flew around, overhead.

_It must be a relatively new door_ he decided, before simply stepping through. He pretended not to wince when he landed awkward, on his own two feet (being sore down there really _was_ a, well, _pain_ for lack of un-pun inducing comments), and immediately he looked around.

A forest. The middle of a forest. And commotion—somewhere off to the left.  
He could distinctly hear Akuma bullets, and the insane laughter of the level 2's and 3's. He nearly cursed himself for choosing this door (he really didn't want to run into one of his brothers or sisters—though he couldn't sense any nearby), and when he tried to slip back amongst the trees—

He didn't move fast enough. Nowhere _near_ fast enough to avoid a certain rough body, colliding with his own, and he had no time to comprehend either, why his skin tingled and burned like it had when he had encountered a certain someone's Innocence.

And when he opened his eyes, he would have liked to call it ironic, really. He opened them to a mess of white hair, and a groaning teenage boy, pushing against his chest to try and right himself.

_Ah,_

Blue eyes met yellow.

"Tyki?!"

**Abcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabcabc**

(1) irmão: means 'brother' in Portuguese. Not sure if it's Brazilian Portuguese or actual Portuguese from Portu_gal_. But it's what Google popped up. If it's wrong, do say so and I will correct it!

Yes, yes, horrible place to end. I'm working on the second part of this now. (still debating on having 'Allen's POV' or just strictly having a continuation of this scene. Any feedback WOULD BE APPRECIATED! Since I actually highly like this XD


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